


Four Secrets Brennan Will Never Tell Booth

by only_more_love



Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Romance, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 04:53:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13450962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/only_more_love/pseuds/only_more_love
Summary: Three secrets Brennan will never tell Booth—and one she did.  [Originally posted elsewhere on January - March 2008.]





	1. Chapter 1

**One**

_Roxanne, you don't have to wear that dress tonight - The Police_

She kept the dress.  _The_  dress—the black one he bought her when they were in Las Vegas. Though she hasn't worn it since then, she likes to pull it out of the back of her closet sometimes and look at it. Look at it and remember.

Remember the frank appreciation in Booth's dark eyes when she stepped out of the bathroom. "That's hot," he'd said as he zipped up the dress. She'd been on the phone with Cam at the time, so she'd hastened to cover up by making an inane comment about the weather. But she'd known what he really meant—and a small, secret part of her had thrilled to hear him verbalize what had been so patently obvious in his eyes—even to her. She isn't nearly as oblivious as people think she is. After all, she's a woman, and she knows that when Booth glanced at her that day, he saw her as a woman, not as his colleague.

She told him once that she had former partners she could call when she was in need of release. And that's true. But she hasn't called any of them in a long time—not since Sully left. Which doesn't mean that she hasn't needed release since then. There are many nights when she does. Many nights when she lies awake, restless and aching for something she can't have. On those nights, she doesn't hesitate to masturbate. Invariably, she recalls the stunned expression on his face, and the way it made her feel. As she touches herself, she recalls the easy way he touched her that day, wrapping a well-muscled arm around her as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

It  _was_  easy and natural. For Tony and Roxie, caught in the glitter and illusion of Las Vegas.

Unfortunately, he isn't Tony, she isn't Roxie, and they are no longer in Vegas. No, he is Special Agent Seeley Booth, and she is Dr. Temperance Brennan, and no matter how much she might wish it were otherwise, he drew a line in the sand. Out of respect for him, she won't cross it.

Here in her bedroom, though, the line is hazy and indistinct, shifting like a desert mirage. So if she imagines that the hands playing over her breasts are his, there is no one to object. If she pretends each stroke that brings her one heartbeat closer comes from his deft fingers, there is no one to tell her otherwise.

And if it is his name that falls from her lips when her body shudders with release, there is no one to hear it but her.

She kept the dress, but she won't wear it again...Unless he asks her to wear it for him. Which he never will—because she'll never admit that she kept it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Two**

_When the truth is I miss you. - Coldplay_

When two weeks pass and Booth doesn't come by with a case that requires her expertise, Brennan discovers a feeling that her innate honesty compels her to label disappointment. Not because she doubts the value of her work when it doesn't involve chasing criminals. No, the restlessness that accompanies Booth's absence–from the lab and her cell phone log–has nothing to do with their work...and everything to do with the man.

In the midst of a life that has for so long been remarkable for its very lack of constancy, her partner has become a constant. Searching her mind, she cannot pinpoint the moment when that happened. But she misses him, she realizes with a physical jolt that sends the file in her lap tumbling to the floor, scattering papers this way and that.

As she slips from the couch and gets down on her hands and knees to retrieve the errant pages, she muses on what exactly she misses about him. It couldn't be the way his eyebrows draw together in a scowl when he is irritated with her. She shakes her head. No, not that. Nor the way his eyes dance as he takes the first bite of his burger. Not that, either. Could it be the way his mouth moved against hers, gently and with just a hint of eagerness, as they stood under mistletoe? Definitely not that, she decides, shoving her hair back as it falls in her face.

A shadow slides over Brennan, drawing her gaze upward. It travels over impeccably shined shoes, long legs encased in black pants wearing creases as sharp as one of her scalpels, the flash of a familiar belt buckle, arms folded over a broad torso, and up to a knowing grin that sends heat flooding her cheeks with a rapidity that stuns her. She wonders how long he has been standing there watching her. "You could make yourself useful and help me," she says, narrowing her eyes and shooting him her most severe look. That look has intimidated many a person and sent them scurrying off to do her bidding.

Unfortunately, it has never had much of an effect on her partner.

This time is no different, for though Booth's grin widens, he doesn't otherwise move. "Seems like you've got things under control," he replies with a lift of his eyebrows. The glint of mischief in his eyes wipes away all thoughts of unexpectedly pleasant kisses and calls forth visions of whacking him in the shin with the spine of her folder.

"You are insufferable."

"Sweet talk will get you everywhere, Bones," he replies.

Ignoring his outstretched hand, she sniffs and rises to her feet with as much dignity as she can muster. After brushing off her legs, she smacks him in the arm with the folder.

"Aww, Bones," he says, looping an arm around her shoulder, "you really missed me, didn't you?"

"Never," she replies, slanting him a sideways glance.

He laughs and squeezes her shoulder. She lets him.


	3. Chapter 3

_Sometimes I see myself fine, sometimes I need a witness_ _\- Dar Williams_

On Fridays after 5:00 PM, the Jeffersonian tends to empty, the majority of its denizens fleeing its polished hallways and gleaming equipment in search of home and family or the "Glug, glug, woohoo" Angela often insists she needs to partake of more often. But Brennan prefers to remain at the lab long after her colleagues depart. She likes the ensuing calm; it allows her to deal with some of the minutia of her job that builds up during the week.

This Friday evening she sits at her desk deleting emails from her inbox. With a sigh, she raises to her lips a mug of Lady Grey she just brewed in the break room, and savors the slight tang of citrus and the soothing warmth of the two teaspoons of cream she'd permitted herself. Even she requires the occasional indulgence, she reasons.

Her Blackberry rings, cutting through the fragile quiet. Frowning, she gently sets the mug back down. The number flashing on the screen is all too familiar, and despite her displeasure at the interruption she cannot repress the smile that touches her mouth. "Hello, Booth," she says.

"Hey, Bones," Booth responds, his voice cheerful. "What are you doing?"

"Working," she replies, leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes so she can better absorb the familiar cadences of his voice.

"Come on," he says, groaning, and she pictures him rolling his eyes at her matter-of-fact response. "Have you looked at a clock?"

"Yes, I have"-she glances at the corner of her computer monitor-"it's 5:45."

"Exactly. And that means it's 45 minutes past quitting time, Bones. It's Friday; live a little. Meet us at the diner. Now."

The "us" snares her interest. "Who is 'us,' Booth?"

"Me and Parker. Rebecca just dropped him off. She and Capt-I mean she and Brent-are going to Virginia. It's just a Booth men's weekend-after you come have dinner with us."

The awareness surfaces that Booth didn't invite her to join them-he demanded that she do so. But she finds herself incapable of summoning up even the tiniest bit of righteous indignation, so rather than putting up token resistance, Brennan relents. "Fine. I'll leave in a few minutes."

"Good. See you soon, Bones."

"Goodbye, Booth."

After the call ends, Brennan puts down her Blackberry and reaches for her tea. She curves both hands around the FBI mug Booth left in her office one day (she never returned it), letting the warmth seep into her palms. She sits without taking another sip and thinks about fathers and their children-until a look at her watch confirms that twenty minutes have passed.

* * *

A fusion of food aromas washes over Brennan as she steps into the diner. Despite not eating beef anymore, she recognizes the smell of a burger fresh from the grill. Overlaying that is a tangy, lemony note-a vinaigrette on someone's salad, perhaps, and the smell makes her mouth water. Utensils clink against plates and bowls, the sounds melding with voices raised in laughter and conversation. The symphony of smells and sounds should bother her after the comparative quiet of her office; it doesn't.

Not more than a minute passes before she spots Booth and Parker. She makes her way toward their table, unbuttoning her coat as she carefully steps past other families and other couples having dinner.

Booth and Parker look up as she stops at their table, and she notices, not for the first time, how similar their brown eyes are.

Booth smiles. "Hey."

The simple, informal greeting warms her as well as her tea did a short while ago.

"Hi, Bones," Parker says, and she knows that asking him not to call her that will prove as futile an exercise as asking the same of his father turned out to be. Parker has called her that since Christmas; the damage is likely irreversible.

"Hello," she replies, removing her scarf and coat before settling into the seat across from her companions.

A remnant of what looks like a chicken nugget litters Parker's small plate. On a separate dish sit several fries.

Parker pushes the plate in her direction. "These are for you."

"Thank you," she says, flashing a quick glance in Booth's direction, "but don't you want them?"

"Nope. I already had some. And Daddy said you like to steal his fries. He said sharing is good."

"Oh, he did, did he?" she asks, raising an eyebrow at her partner.

Booth merely shrugs, his face smoothed into innocent lines that fool her not at all.

"Uh huh," says Parker, an orange crayon clutched in his right hand.

"All right then. Thanks, Parker," she replies, grasping one fry. The crisp texture makes her smile as she slowly chews it. She licks the salt from her lips and catches Booth watching her, his eyes warm with what she knows is affection. "You've eaten already, too?" she asks, gesturing at Booth's clean plate with another fry.

"Yup. You took so long to get here."

She ignores his jibe. "Let me hazard a guess-a burger?"

"Wrong," he says, grinning. "Try chocolate chip waffles."

"Branching out?" she says, smiling back.

"It's Friday," he says, shrugging, "gotta live a little, Bones."

The waitress materializes at their table then, a large plate in her hands. "Here you go, hon," she says, and places the plate in front of Brennan.

Taken aback by the appearance of what seem to be Belgian waffles with ice cream, Brennan frowns and looks at the waitress' nametag. "Excuse me, Lacey. I didn't order this."

"I ordered it for you," Booth says. "Just try a piece. If you don't like it, order something else."

She glances across the table to see that Parker has looked up from his coloring and is staring wide-eyed at the waffles. "Wow," he says.

Without knowing why, Brennan decides to keep the waffles. "All right. Leave it."

"You won't be sorry," Lacey says, flashing her a dazzling smile. To Brennan's relief, she doesn't address her as "hon" this time. That level of familiarity from strangers still disturbs her.

"I hope not," Brennan replies, glancing at Booth, who looks back at her with a twinkle in his brown eyes.

Lacey departs, leaving her with the waffles. Parker is still staring at them. "Would you like some?"

"Can I, Dad?" Parker asks.

"If it's ok with Bones."

"As your father said, sharing is good," she says, directing her response to Parker. Without looking at Booth, she knows he is smiling. That knowledge settles comfortably within her as she cuts into the waffles and transfers a piece of them, along with a healthy helping of ice cream, onto Parker's plate.

"Cool!" Parker says as she slides the plate back toward him.

Despite the distinct rumbling of her stomach, Brennan props her hand on her chin and watches as Parker lifts his fork.

"What do you say, Parker?" Booth says, his voice firm but kind.

The paternal admonishment amuses Brennan, but she attempts to keep it from showing on her face.

Parker looks up from his plate. "Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now"-she picks up her own fork-"let's eat."

The waffle is warm and crunchy, and the vanilla ice cream serves as a cool, sweet counterpoint. Though she would never admit it, the dish is precisely what she hadn't realized she wanted.

"Pretty good, huh?" Booth asks. He raises his eyebrows in challenge.

"It's all right," she replies, cutting off another piece of waffle.

"Uh huh."

Booth silently watches her and Parker eat, a small smile playing about his mouth.

"What?" she finally asks.

"Nothing, Bones," he says, ruffling Parker's hair.

Once they've finished eating, Brennan pushes her plate away and wipes her mouth with her napkin. Parker returns to his coloring, his bottom lip caught between his teeth.

"What are you coloring?" she asks, intrigued by his apparent concentration. He looks up from his task, an intent expression on his face, and she is reminded of his father.

"A cow." He slides the paper toward her.

She looks at the page and notices that Parker has filled in some of the cow's spots with green crayon. "That's very... interesting," she says, nodding thoughtfully. In the interests of accuracy, part of her wants to inform him that a cow's spots are more black than green, but she has been partners with Booth long enough to know that he wants to encourage Parker's creativity.

"Do you wanna do the other spots?"

The question takes Brennan by surprise, but she doesn't hesitate for more than a second. "Sure."

"What color do you want?" Parker asks.

Glancing at the rainbow of crayons spread across the diner table, she takes her time making a decision. She can feel Booth's gaze on her, but she doesn't look up. "I want... purple," she finally says. This tiny act of rebellion gives her an inexplicable thrill.

Parker hands her the purple crayon. She takes it from him and bends to fill in one of the blank spots on the cow. The crayon feels waxy and strange in her hand-but not wholly unfamiliar. Holding it, she doesn't have a sudden flash of memory of being a child herself. But she does feel something that catches her off-guard-a lingering sense of nostalgia and contentment.

"Purple, Bones?" Booth asks.

She shifts her attention from the page to Booth. "I have to live a little, right?"

The expression that moves over Booth's face is completely out of proportion to her answer, but she smiles back anyway. His gaze is warm with approval and friendship, as is his son's.

Though nothing has changed-she still has no desire to reproduce-somehow everything has. Because as Brennan looks back at the two Booth men sitting across from her, she realizes she is glad she abandoned her office for their company. Just this once.


	4. Chapter 4

**Four**

_In the end, it's better to say too much than to never to say what you need to say again. - John Mayer_

Brennan knows something is wrong as soon as she steps into her apartment and shuts the door behind her. There is no identifiable reason for her discomfort, but it is there-in the rapid tattoo of her pulse and the quickening of her breath. Perhaps she is simply listening to the intuition of which Booth is such a proponent.

The click-click of her footsteps stills as she turns the corner and sees it.

A slender blue tie she would recognize almost anywhere lies on the hallway floor-next to it, blood.

An obscene pool spreading toward her shoes.

She steps back.

Crimson smeared across her formerly pristine walls like paint on canvas for a modern art installation at one of the museums she's visited with Angela.

Her hand flies to her throat. The sound of her own respiration rattles in her ears. Breathe in, she tells herself, feeling her diaphragm expand.  _Now, breathe out._  The silent instructions give her something to focus on besides the acidic taste of fear and the raw panic that claws at her stomach.

She steadies herself against the wall, the plaster cool and solid beneath her palm, despite the unreality of the sight laid out before her.

A sound like a moan filters to her ears, and she cranes her neck, attempting to see where it emanated from. Her bedroom door stands slightly ajar, a beam of light edging out of the room. Her gun is in her bedroom, and though caution tells her to be wary, she finds herself drawn helplessly toward the room as if pulled by an invisible string. "Booth?" she calls out, her voice uncertain, even though she knows it is unwise to announce her presence.

She strains to listen for sounds of an intruder, but none reach her ears.

The blood has spread so there is no longer a clear path to the room; she steps through it, grimacing as she does so. Pushing the door in, she steps inside and gasps as her brain registers what she sees.

"Oh my God." Despite her lack of belief, these are the words that spring to her lips.

"Booth…" Brennan wakes, shivering, her hands opening and closing convulsively on the nubby folds of her blanket. The nightmare weighs on her body, making her feel claustrophobic; in spite of the chill enveloping her skin, she shoves aside the blanket and rises from the bed. Movement provides some relief.

Staring down at her bedside clock, she watches the red numbers (not blood-red, thankfully) shift from 4:32 to 4:33. When the numbers become 4:34, she feels confident she is fully awake. She should try to go back to sleep. It was just a dream, she reasons. Dreams don't actually possess the power to hurt anyone.

Brennan moves to the bathroom and runs the faucet until the water hovers just on the edge of hot. Her hands tremble as she holds them under the stream, but she tries to ignore that the same way she avoids glancing at her reflection. Without looking, she knows her skin is leached of color.

Dreams might not cause corporeal harm, but she is compelled to admit they can still disturb one's equilibrium. This is at least the fifth time she has had this particular dream. The first occurrence was around the time Russ joined their father in jail. She knows because she keeps a journal on her computer to help, and both events were noted in entries. The journal serves as a silent witness to her days and nights and helps her sift through the sensory input with which life bombards her. Without knowing exactly how it works, she believes the journal gives her a place to germinate the beginnings of her books.

Drying her hands on a towel, she tells herself she should try to fall back asleep. There is still time before she needs to get up and prepare for another long day. But her body doesn't appear to want to obey her brain's dictates because instead of sliding back underneath her blanket, she grabs her cell phone from her nightstand and carries it out to the living room. The darkness presses against her, trying to find a way in, so she hurriedly switches on several lights before collapsing onto the couch.

The Blackberry is cool in her hand, and she stares down at it, nibbling on her bottom lip as she struggles to make a decision she has avoided making for some time now. Blood on her floor. She remembers Booth by her side as she stared in shock at the pool of blood on her apartment floor and concluded that Kirby had killed Russ. He hadn't, but she didn't know that at the time. All she'd known was that no one could have survived that much blood loss. All those years she'd ignored Russ' birthday phone calls. All those wasted years when they could have been family. Not the family she idealized, but still family. Pride, foolishness, anger separated her from her brother.

It could have been too late for them.

Booth was her family, too. He had told her once that there was more than one kind of family. She hadn't known then whether or not to believe him. People said things, things they didn't mean, intending to comfort, bolster, reassure. Better to not say the words at all than to say them and not mean them, she believed.

But time had shown her the truth of his words, hadn't it? Upon finding Booth's tooth in that dim hallway, the same panic rose in her that had been there when she'd seen that pool of what she'd thought was her brother's blood. The same rage. What punishment would she have meted out on the bones of Veleska Miller's face if her father hadn't held her back? How much blood would she have spilled in Booth's name?

Once her decision is made, she acts. She has never seen the value in delaying once a course of action has been chosen; tomorrow is an unknown entity, this life the only one that is guaranteed.

He answers on the third ring. "Hello," he says, his voice sounding different than usual. Sleep has smoothed it and paradoxically roughened it as well.

"Hello, Booth," she says, and her voice comes out softer than she intended.

"Bones?" His voice sharpens. "Are you ok?"

"Yes. I… I'm sorry to wake you. I'm fine." She curls her legs beneath her. "That is, everything's all right. I just…" She could drive to his apartment, but she doesn't think that would be wise at the moment, so in spite of her distaste for asking anyone for anything, she steels her resolve and makes her request. "Could you please come over?" she asks, half-ready for his refusal.

"I'll be right over," he says, and she hears his bedding rustle as he moves. Part of her is surprised at his immediate acquiescence. Part of her isn't; Booth has never refused her anything she truly needed. Recognizing that makes this somewhat easier.

"Thank you."

"See you soon, Bones." He doesn't say, "You're welcome," but she knows he means it all the same. The words slide in neatly beside the countless others that sit, unspoken, and fill the space between them with their ghostly weight.

* * *

As Brennan waits for Booth to arrive and ponders what she will say once he does, she examines her hands and finds that her cuticles are dry and ragged. She rises and pads back to her bathroom in search of lotion. So it is that when the knock sounds at her front door, Brennan is smoothing lotion over her hands. She pushes up the sleeves of her pajamas, rubs her hands over her arms in an effort to get rid of the excess lotion, and then hurries to the door.

On impulse, she looks through the peephole to confirm that her early morning visitor is in fact her partner. He would approve of this safety measure, she thinks, allowing herself a wry smile. She undoes the locks and opens the door, standing back to let Booth in. A wave of cool air follows him in and she shivers. Instead of brushing past her and making his way into the living room, he stands to her side with his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans and silently waits, shoulders hunched, while she closes and locks the door. It isn't until she turns and walks toward the couch that he moves, following behind her.

They sit, bodies angled toward one another. Whatever she had planned to say vanishes into the distance as she looks at Booth. It is a relief simply to have him near her so her eyes can see the evidence that he is whole and safe-at least for the moment. True safety is an illusion in their world, where bullets and madmen wait to make themselves known. But at this moment Booth's body is real and solid, taking up space next to her.

His hair sticks up in messy, uncombed tufts, his eyes appear soft and slightly unfocused. This, then, is a Booth the rest of the world doesn't get to see. The thought fills her with unexpected satisfaction—until she acknowledges that this is also a Booth she has never really seen herself.

They still haven't spoken, but the silence held between them speaks of a comfort that has grown out of other wordless moments. Booth yawns, squeezing his eyes shut, and stretches his arms overhead; she feels a second's guilt for pulling him from the cocoon of his bed. He is waiting for her to speak, she knows. So she lets him wait while she gathers her thoughts.

"I've been told I'm cold and emotionally distant," Brennan says, speaking at last. There was a time when Booth was simply a distasteful aspect of her job. Certainly not something to look forward to. Certainly not a person upon whom she could rely.

Booth's gaze snaps to her. "No one who really knows you could ever say that."

She inclines her head in acknowledgment. "I'm glad you think so."

"It's not what I think, Bones. It's the truth," he says, frowning.

His stubborn insistence coaxes a smile from her and convinces her she is doing the right thing. "I have feelings, just like other people."

"I never doubted it," Booth replies, and she believes him.

The nightmare's icy grip has loosened, but she still feels cold. She wishes he would shift closer and pull her into his arms. But without imminent calamity about to strike, he won't be that bold.

This last step is hers to take; perhaps it always was. If she wants him, she will have to reach for him; she has never been good at reaching.

"Do you remember telling me that there is more than one kind of family?"

"Yeah," he says, nodding slowly, "I remember that." He tilts his head, watching her, and she remembers again how proficient he is at reading people. What has he already read in her?

"I wasn't sure I believed you then," she says, letting her gaze drift from his face to the frayed cuffs of his sweatshirt. Despite its apparent age, the sweatshirt looks warm and soft, and she is still cold.

"I figured as much."

"But I believe you now."

"Good. I'm glad."

"And I want to tell you something I should have told you a long time ago." Though it is difficult, she forces herself to meet his eyes. "You... You are family to me."

She watches him absorb her secret, the impact evident in the straightening of his shoulders and the way his gaze turns thoughtful.

"Thank you. I'm guessing it wasn't easy for you to tell me that."

She shakes her head. "It wasn't," she says, wondering if her relief is written on her face.

"Look, Bones, I'm glad you said it, but I already knew."

"You did?"

A slow smile dawns on Booth's face, warming his eyes-and her. "Of course."

"How?" she asks. "I never said anything."

"You didn't have to. Some things you just know."

"So your gut told you?" she asks, returning his smile.

"Something like that."

"So what else does your gut tell you?" she says, raising her eyebrows pointedly.

Booth's smile widens. "That you want another guy hug."

"What? I do not." She is lying, and they both know it.

"You sure about that?" he shoots back with a grin. "This is a one-time-only offer," he says.

"In that case..." Brennan crosses the last bit of distance separating them, reaching for Booth. He reaches back, and it isn't nearly as difficult as she imagined it would be.

She was right; his sweatshirt is warm and soft. His cheek, though, is scratchy with stubble. She doesn't mind. Folded in Booth's arms, held against his chest, Brennan feels warm for the first time since she woke from her nightmare. "I'm not stupid, Booth."

"Who said you were?" he asks, and she feels the words vibrate through his body and into hers.

"These aren't guy hugs," Brennan replies, sighing happily as his hand rubs slow circles over her back.

"I know." Even though she can't see his face, she knows he's smiling because she feels his cheek move against hers. "Sure took you long enough to figure it out," he says, toying with her hair.

She cuffs him in the shoulder; he laughs a low, rumbling laugh that fills her with inexplicable joy.

"So what made you tell me all this now?"

"That's a secret, and I think I've revealed enough of those for one day."

"So you interrupted my beauty sleep to tell me something I already knew?" he complains.

"Apparently," she says, hiding her smile in his shoulder.

Booth pulls back to look at her. "That's ok," he says, eyes twinkling, "I'll figure out the rest of your secrets eventually."

"I highly doubt that."

"I can be very persuasive," he whispers into her ear, making her shiver, though not from cold this time.

"We'll see."

"It's like a very wise man once said: 'Everything happens eventually.'"

* * *

**A/N:**  And that, dear friends, brings us to the end of this particular journey. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did. If not, I'm still thankful you came along for the ride. :) If you have a minute, I would love to hear what you thought.


End file.
